Chapter 69: The Breeze of the Algarve
In the Algarve of southern Portugal, the Atlantic breeze carried the scent of brine, sweeping away the last wisps of gunpowder that had clung to the Berlin night.
This was Europe's famous resort haven—and Lin Yuan's rare refuge.
Inside a white villa hidden on the cliff's edge, there were no dressing-room roars, no jeers from the stands, not even the roll of a football. Only the steady rhythm of waves striking rock and the clink of ice against glass.
Lin Yuan lay on a terrace lounger, a straw hat over his face, his bare torso bronzed by the sun. A week had passed, yet the fresh scar across his brow—earned while blocking a goal-bound shot—still glowed like a medal not yet cooled.
A thick ice pack still circled his right knee.
"If I were you, I wouldn't reach for that drink."
Anna's voice came from behind. She wore an oversized white shirt, a plate of sliced fruit in hand, her eyes equal parts fond and exasperated.
Lin Yuan's hand froze mid-air, then retreated in sheepish surrender.
"Just thirsty," he muttered, the savagery of the pitch replaced by a rare languor.
"Your meniscus is still protesting—don't give it extra work." Anna set the fruit on the side table and lifted the iced lemonade to his lips. "Open."
He took a compliant sip. Were Declan Rice or Bellingham to witness this, their jaws would hit the floor—the tyrant who devoured opponents on the field now resembled a tamed jungle cat.
"Jorge (Mendes) called," Anna said, gazing at the distant coastline. "Your phone's been off three days; sponsors are blowing up his line. Nike wants a championship commemorative boot, EA Sports wants you on the next game cover…"
"Let them wait."
Lin Yuan settled the hat back over his face, voice drowsy. "All I want now is sleep."
"There's one more thing." Anna hesitated. "About home…"
Lin Yuan's fingers twitched, but he stayed silent.
"Not the Football Association," she murmured, reading his reaction. "The fans. Jorge says tens of thousands staged celebrations in several big cities, all wearing your Chelsea shirt, holding your posters. They said… thank you for letting the world see the pride of the Chinese people."
Beneath the straw brim, Lin Yuan remained silent a long while.
"Is that so."
Only after a pause did his calm reply drift out. "Then thank them for me."
Gone was the old hostility, the simmering anger. In this afternoon far from strife, he could finally accept pure goodwill. Bureaucracy and strife were left far behind.
The phone on the table buzzed.
This time it was Cristiano Ronaldo with a video call.
Lin Yuan sat up and answered. Onscreen, Ronaldo wore shades, backdrop a luxury yacht, Georgina in his arms, grinning like a child who owned the world.
"Hey, champion!" Ronaldo shouted. "Why hide at home? Come out and play! I'm in Ibiza; the party just started!"
"I don't fancy swapping knees after retirement," Lin Yuan said, pointing to the ice pack. "Doctor's orders—rest."
"Come on, I know your physique," Ronaldo laughed, then turned serious. "Oh, something you'll like—Mourinho's up to his old tricks."
"What's he done?"
"He found you a new partner," Ronaldo smirked. "A 'mask man' from Naples. Cost Boehly one hundred twenty million. Built like an ox, should handle your passes."
Lin Yuan's eyebrow rose.
Victor Osimhen.
He knew the name—Serie A top scorer, explosive Black striker. If Haaland was a precision scoring machine, Osimhen was a no-nonsense siege hammer.
"Sounds good." A curve touched Lin Yuan's lips, anticipation flickering in his eyes. "Chelsea's front line's too soft—we need some steel."
"Great." Ronaldo lifted his glass. "Rest up, Lin. Next season all Europe will be watching. Don't drop the crown."
"Don't worry," Lin Yuan said quietly. "I don't take what's on my head lightly."
He hung up and gazed at the distant horizon.
Sea breeze brushed his face, sweeping away the last trace of fatigue.
A fine holiday, yet he could feel the slumbering beast inside him stirring.
European champion was only the beginning.
Premier League, Champions League, Ballon d'Or… the Chelsea Mourinho called "the complete form" awaited his return in London's mist, and the coming season would be bloodier and more brilliant than ever.
"Anna."
Lin Yuan spoke suddenly.
"Mm?"
"Book a flight," he said, peeling off the ice pack and rising to flex stiff joints. "Back to London."
"So soon? You still have two days off."
"No more rest."
He stepped to the railing, hands braced, back straight as a pine.
"My new partner's coming. As captain, I need to teach him Chelsea rules."
Anna watched that silhouette, shaking her head in resignation yet smiling.
The tyrant who made all Europe tremble had returned.
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